


Jack of Hearts

by tjs_whatnot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drabble, Drama, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Post War, Romance, Second War with Voldemort, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-02
Updated: 2008-02-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/pseuds/tjs_whatnot
Summary: Even Knights sometimes need saving...Series of Drabbles.





	Jack of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This was written for Ginger_Lust's fest on Live Journal.

Ron Weasley had found his oasis. The reprieve from the onslaught of his own thoughts and guilt. Here he blended with the local flavor of the bar, free of questions about bravery and loyalty. The impoverished fellow patrons allowed him to wallow in what he was slowly becoming. The town drunk.

 

  When he’d had one too many—that was his favorite time. It was the time where he could forget he’d had friends once. Friends that had needed him, friends that had died. And when he drank a few more, they were back with him; ghosts on the barstools beside him.  

***  

He stood in the middle of his broom-cupboard of a flat in his towel and wet hair; prepared for another night of cruising the streets. It wasn’t fun for him; it was his job; his way of surviving; his way of punishing himself for that survival. 

Running his fingers through his hair, he avoided the mirror. The enmity he shared with his own reflection had a paralyzing effect on him. HHhe needed all his energy if he was going to get enough to buy his next bottle of liquid pardon.

 Tucking his wand into his jean’s pocket, he set off.  

***   

 

Ron stood on the barstool, swaying precariously as he pontificated to the masses.

 

 “In the heady days of true love’s blossom; she held me close. The whispered yearnings, the silent wanting are of mysteries to all but me.  What lay betwixt she and I—nothing but the moonbeams of yore. Her skin so pure, her hair so luxuriant none but I had held.” 

He raised his glass to the catcalls and boos. 

“Another round should do for that.” 

Throwing coins to the barmaid, the crowd was once again stilled and attentive; it was their favorite of his magic tricks.  

***  

The voice from behind was familiar and warm but he tensed just the same. He wasn’t expecting anyone he knew, anyone who could tell him his past and pluck those fugitive memories from his addled, whisky-soaked mind. 

“Ron, how are you?” 

“Hey Remus, how’s tricks?”  

“Funny, that’s what I was going to ask.” 

“Ah, yes, that’s funny. You lookin’ to be my next John?” then he registered Lupin’s sadness, “No, wait, you’re here to save me aren’t you?” 

“Somebody has to.” 

“And you, the consummate knight, are here to perform the honors?” 

“Yes. If there’s anything left to save.” 

“There isn’t.”   

***  

Looking over his shoulder, Ron proceeded hastily down the alley. He imagined that he’d lost his predator. The last thing he needed was a knight in shining armor. He was supposed to be the knight.  

He longed to dwell on other things. What he really wanted to ponder is where he was going to get his next bottle of liquid amnesia.  

Looking restively at the derelicts he passed, wondering who his next customer would be, where his next fix would come from. His eyes found the eyes he’d been running from. _Damn, how did he keep doing that?_   

***  

“Why’re you following me?” Ron asked, rounding on his assailant. 

“I told you. I feel responsible for you. I need to make sure you’re alright.” 

“Well, take a good look. I’m fine, now run along and report back, you have done your duty.” 

“I understand your maudlin façade, I’m familiar with the exact span and scale of the lie you’re telling yourself. You’re not alone in these feelings of guilt, of remorse. You think you are the only one who has lost friends? Family? People you’d sworn to protect? They don’t call me the Last Marauder for nothing you know.”  

*** 

Remus watched Ron contemplate his words, weighing his options. Then Ron turned his back and again walked away from him. That was it; he had finally lost his patience with the nonsense. Doing something he had promised himself he wouldn’t, Remus removed his wand, pointing it at the back of his charge. 

When Ron woke, he was shocked to discover the familiar surroundings of Grimmauld Place.  

“You knocked me out,” he croaked accusingly at Remus who sat in a chair across from where Ron lay. 

“Very astute,” Remus replied, conjuring a glass of whisky. 

Drinking greedily, Ron instantly needed more.  

*** 

Remus held Ron’s fervid, limp body to him. He’d stopped fighting Remus’s touch, he’d stopped the uncontrollable shaking but Remus knew the worst wasn’t yet behind them. There were still nightmares to come. Terrors that Ron’s drugged mind had shoved down into a dark hole would now rise to the surface, demanding his consideration.  

“Remus, please,” Ron gasped, breath dry and putrid, “Make the pain go away.” 

All Remus could do was to rock him, soothe him into the horror that awaited his latent mind. The dreams would come and as cruel as it seemed; Remus urged him to them. 

***  

Ron’s inflamed mind burned as he dreamed fitfully. Sometimes he felt a suffocating tightness, like being wrapped in a cocoon. Other times, he was soaring. He refused to believe in metamorphosis; more so that he was a butterfly. 

 

Awaking, he struggled violently against the sheets he’d wrapped himself in; comforted that his dream could be explained. But nothing could explain who was lying beside him. 

 

The first thing he noticed was the scars. They were all along his torso, the side of his face. But when Remus turned in his sleep Ron saw not all of his scars were self-inflicted. 

***   

Four days after Ron’s abduction, when the sweats and the shaking stopped, Remus allowed Ron out of his room. He was still not allowed out of the house, out of Remus’s sight; just out of the room that had tortured him by growing smaller and smaller every minute since Remus had thrown him in it.

 

The only thing calming the shaking; soothing the heaving sense of loss and sobering realization was being wrapped tightly in Remus’s arms. He had needed Remus’s strength, his presence. 

 

But now he couldn’t look at Remus. Couldn’t even think of what he had put Remus through. 

***  

Ron knew this was part of the healing process. Going back and revisiting past actions, evaluating what had happened, what could have been done better, what couldn’t have been stopped.

 

Knowing wasn’t helping with the actual retrospective. To go back was beyond painful. To place blame where it belonged was a wound he couldn’t heal and it wasn’t for the reason most would suppose. It wasn’t the blame he’d have to take as his own that he feared, it was the blame that lay with the dead he couldn’t contemplate.

 

How do you spit on the memory of the fallen? 

***  

Remus listened to his confession with the stillness of a priest. He had always felt that calling, but never acted on it in quite this way before. There would be no need for absolution in the end. The only pardon would have to come from the man himself.

 

He was aghast at the amount of self-loathing the man emitted and marveled at the level of feelings he had repressed inside of him. There were going to be no painless answers as to how to proceed. But carry on they would; Remus would demand nothing less. Their lives depended on it. 

***  

The terrestrial landscape all around inspired him and Ron found his knees were weak at the glory. Thankfully Remus was there to keep him on his feet. These days Remus was always there, always holding him up. He had even stopped resenting it.

 

“Are you ready to go?” Remus asked.

 

Ron shook his head no, but allowed Remus to lead him down the hill to the run-down house in the distance.

 

He guessed he should call it home, but it really wasn’t anymore. The only thing that was home to Ron now was the man standing beside him. 

***  

Molly Weasley stood in front of him for what seemed a lifetime; hand over her mouth, tears streaming her ruddy cheeks. If it were possible for Ron’s heart to break anymore it would have cracked in two. It did tear a bit, the part that was still alive, that hadn’t been torn out of him the last year.

 

Remus put his hand on Ron’s shoulder, “Come on. It’s almost over.” 

 

The homecoming was exactly like he thought it’d be after his mother released him another lifetime later. 

 

“You look knackered and dead on your feet; dinner then bed for you.”

 

*** 

 

Not being able to sleep, Ron went looking for the man who had stilled his dreams in the past. Had been his dream of the future, when he hadn’t even imagined there was a future.

 

The moonlight was almost at its brightest. Ron saw Remus looking at it, resigned to what would happen in a few days. In Ron’s own self absorption he couldn’t believe that he’d denigrated Remus’s very real affliction with no thought. 

 

“What can I do?”

 

Remus didn’t even look from the vigil of the moon but answered, “When it’s time, you have to let me go.” 

***  

The paradox of Remus’s life began to dawn on Ron as he counted the torturous days his werewolf savior was gone. Three days of separation were too long; after six the gloom became desperate. It dawned on him that Remus might not be coming back.

 

He had lost too many people to let Remus go willingly. Still his first frightening instinct was to find his oasis and drown himself. He swallowed that longing and focused instead on being someone else’s Knight. For he felt in the bits of him that still registered things besides his own needs; Remus required saving now. *** 

Ron walked into the manky interior of the Shrieking Shack. 

 

He heard shuffling from the room above. Pulling his wand out, he crept the stairs. 

 

Fresh blood-splattered walls outside a locked room were his first indication he’d found his man.

 

“Alohamora.”

 

“Don’t come in,” Remus croaked. 

 

“Why?” 

 

I don’t want you to see me this way.”

 

“What way?” Ron asked.

 

“This…old and…tired. I’m so tired.”

 

Ron approached, “It’s okay; we’re all tired. Let me—” Looking into Remus’s red-rimmed eyes, he pleaded, “Please, let me be here for you.”

 

Smiling weakly, Remus reached out; then pulled back. “You can’t.” 

***  

Ron wasn’t going anywhere. 

 

Remus wasn’t making it easy, but Ron understood difficult, understood patience. Remus had taught him well.

 

“I know what you’re really after. You want to get your hands on this beautiful shack of mine,” Remus said after hours.

 

Ron smiled, “I thought I was the witty one and you were the strong one.”

 

Now Remus laughed, “I’ve never been strong and you’ve never been funny.”

 

Ron wasn’t going to argue, it wasn’t important. 

 

“This isn’t going to work,” Remus said.

 

“Yes it will,” was all Ron answered.

 

They stared at each other. Wondering who was going to win.     


End file.
